


Just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you.

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Barebacking, Comeplay, Death, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombieland AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:41:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, yeah, when Harry's really fit, smart neighbour, or friend with benefits, whatever, rushes to his own dorm room two doors down in search of lube—stupid of Harry; really, he had gone to fucking Tesco earlier that day and would've saved a lot of trouble—and comes back approximately twenty minutes later to a softening Harry, with sudden ashy, decaying skin and ripped clothing splattered with blood, uh. Harry wonders exactly what happened during the long twenty minutes the lad was gone.</p><p>And when the once very, very attractive bloke lunges at him all Harry can think of is to fucking run and shout, “Sorry, mate! But you should know I’m not really into role play,” and grabs the toaster—a toaster, seriously— throwing it at him with as much force as possible.  The white appliance lands on the carpet with a thud after hitting the things’ head and Aiden—or whatever possessed his body—falls onto the ground with a loud groan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Zombieland AU, of sorts. I’ll be using the 32 rules of the movie. Title from Territorial Pissings by Nirvana. 
> 
> This is for my childhood best friend, Paige, whom I’m very thankful for, and whom will never read this because she has no idea I even write. Good. I miss the summer nights where we would just play Left for Dead for hours and we became zombie-killing experts. I hear a Tank coming...good luck with that. 
> 
> Not Beta-d.
> 
> I don’t own One Direction nor do I own any member of One Direction, just a lonely Niall doll hidden in my closet. 
> 
> This never happened. (Thank God.)

-

 

 

_“In every game, there are rules. It doesn’t even matter what you play—footy, baseball, tennis, bowling, chess, or pool—there are always rules, amateur or pro. It doesn’t matter if you’re Christiano Ronaldo or Serena Williams or Tom Daley—if you don’t follow the rules that are the construction of your whole entire sport, well, face it, you won’t get very far. Really, there are rules everywhere and in everything. Rules, instructions, directions, whatever you wish to call them.”_

-

There are rules in school, directions on the back of the pancake mix (an attempt to lure your one night stands with fluffy, round pieces of heaven into a quick blowie under the breakfast table, for old times’ sake never hurts anyone), instructions on how to build your sons’ first bike. Rules just make up the construction of a red brick building, and without instructions you wouldn’t know how to build it in the first place. Rules are just life and you need to them get on by in society (unless you’re the Biebs and rules just don’t seem to apply to you whatsoever) and you need them to survive.

So, yeah, when Harry's really fit, smart neighbour, or friend with benefits, whatever, rushes to his own dorm room two doors down in search of lube—stupid of Harry; really, he had gone to fucking Tesco earlier that day and would've saved _a lot_ of trouble—and comes back approximately twenty minutes later to a softening Harry, with sudden ashy, decaying skin and ripped clothing splattered with blood, uh. Harry wonders exactly what happened during the long twenty minutes the lad was gone.

And when the once very, _very_ attractive bloke lunges at him all Harry can think of is to fucking _run_ and shout, “Sorry, mate! But you should know I’m not really into role play,” and grabs the toaster—a toaster, _seriously—_ throwing it at him with as much force as possible.  The white appliance lands on the carpet with a thud after hitting the things’ head and Aiden—or whatever possessed his body—falls onto the ground with a loud groan.

Harry stands still for a moment. Is he dead? It—Aiden? He hustles back towards his bedroom and grabs a duffel bag; stuffing in several tees, pants, two pairs of skinnies, and a few packets of condoms. Just in case. He snatches his iPhone and its’ charger from his bedside table. He knows it’s not normal for human beings to have pieces of their flesh hanging from their bodies or foam weird, reddish suds at the mouth. His own very human body, thank God, is shaking as he slips his feet into a pair of white Chucks and his stomach lurches at the thought of leaving his favourite brown, suede boots. Because, well, they were expensive and it had taken forever to break them in and—so he throws them into his bag, also.

His heart is racing loud like the stomps of a thousand marching soldiers and all he can really think of is Liam. 

He make his way back into the small living room attached to the kitchenette, expecting to see Aiden’s body still crimpled on the floor, but the space is just empty except for the stupid toaster that popped out a piece of forgotten toast from the fright and little, white, moving pieces of rice. Harry might not be able to enjoy good paella anytime soon.

His stomach flops as he realizes that his best friend could definitely be whatever the fuck Aiden turned into. It doesn’t take someone with a Harvard education to notice what a zombie is. He’s played video games; Left for Dead 2 for three summers straight and the Nazi zombies in COD is his favourite part.

As he sneaks his way out of his dorm, he realizes that being a character with large masses of lives and powerful weapons in a game is very different than being a lanky, nineteen year old uni student with no weapons, just a toaster left behind. _Life is no Nintendo game; you don’t get no second chance._ That’s what Eminem said anyway, and Lord, Harry groans; the said rapper is probably a zombie, too, roaming the streets of Detroit.

The halls of his building are surprisingly, and quite eerily, silent. There are no signs of his now-zombies dorm mates, and the common room leading out to the main hall is empty, too. Could it just have been Aiden? Was it something he ate? Maybe the spicy sushi rolls the bloke ate earlier were bad, or maybe there was like, some kind of parasite in them that made him go all wacky. Maybe he was trying out his _spectacular_ , if so, late—early?—Halloween costume on Harry, and Harry threw a toaster at him!

Ignorance is bliss, indeed, and—and a _zombie_ takeover?

 _Liam Liam Liam_ is racing through his head as his feet pound on the frozen pavement, clouds of air puffing out. His best friend is across campus, five minutes away, and Harry is probably crazy, and maybe the pills he took two nights ago at the shady club are finally making effect, and he’s going fucking insane, ‘cause, really, zombies? Whatever Aiden turned into after going to get lube was not human. No way.

His own breath is heavy in his ears, but he perks up the sound of soft moaning behind him, feet being dragged. He whips his head around, feet still moving, and stumbles in shock. There are three things, zombies, moving hastily towards him, their eyes dead, sunken into their white, patchy skins. Their feet drag against the concrete and their arms—or limbs, truthfully—limp at their sides.

These once were uni students, like him, and he’s pretty damn sure the one on the right, with the shoulder-length, knotted brown hair and cracked glasses resembles the girl who always blasted _Avenge Sevenfold_ in the back of the band room. He picks up his speed a little bit, sending a quiet _thanks_ to Liam for dragging his ass out of bed on Sundays to go running through Kingston Park and hitting the ring with him on Tuesday and Thursday nights.

 _Cardio,_ he thinks.

 And then that’s just it and Prof. Simon’s lectures on society and rules and Justin Bieber comes to mind, and he’s being chased by fucking zombies like he’s in some real-life video game, and rules. Where the hell are the rules? Aren’t there rules against zombie apocalypses? Like physics and biology and science and shit like that? Isn’t there a rule that the undead are supposed to stay...dead? Doesn’t the Catholic Church have strict rules against _that_?

It’s just a bunch of shit, everything.

Harry can hear the groans getting louder, closer, and he runs into the Buchannan building, and tries to slam the door shut. What used to be the _Avenged Sevenfold_ girl sticks half of her body through before he can fully shut it, and he kinda wants to vomit everywhere after taking a close look at her face, gory and missing parts. She’s gnashing her rotting teeth at him like a lion after being caged for days with no food and Harry mumbles a quick apology before grabbing the door open and closing it just as fast, smashing her head in. She stops stirring for a bit, going limp in the doorway.

The other two are pounding on the glass windows, hungry, and the _A7x_ girl starts groaning again. Harry runs behind him, grabbing a heavily filled flower pot, bicep muscles straining against the tight material of his leather bomber, and drops it on her head. She doesn’t move anymore, and Harry nudges her out of the doorway, onto the cold pavement outside, as quickly as possible through the small door gap, and with a heavy sighs locks the door.

Zombies, definitely zombies.

Like his own building, Liam’s is empty, too, and that sends shivers down Harrys’ spine. _Where are they?_ Are they just hiding in the corners, feeding off unsuspecting, drunk uni students? And is this happening all around the world? Are there people being bitten and—infected in Australia, Japan, and Mexico? The Americas, Asia, Europe, Africa? Or is it just unlucky London, with its’ rude, hurried inhabitants and shit metro singers? (But, I mean, if you’re going by sheer rudeness, surely New York City would be the place to get invaded by zombies.)

He lets out a deep breath as he goes to stand in front of his best mate’s door, his body stiff and on alert, ears perked like Scooby Doo, and eyes wide. He’s seen too much already, killed already dead, yet walking former university students. And it’s not even midnight yet. He cracks a small smile when he sees Liam’s decorated door—photos from when they were younger and (slightly more) naive and (really, really more) scrawny, and the banner Harry made for Liam’s twentieth still hangs sloppily across the width of the wood.

Harry shakes his head, _right_ , Liam, zombies, attack, what the fucking _fuck_.

“Liam! Li? Open up,” he slams his palm against the door. “Liam, c’mon, _please_! Are you in there?” he stops when he hears the quiet murmurs inside. “Liam,” he mumbles, “are you still...you?” It’s silent again. He pounds on the door with his fist now.

The door swings open, “What the fuck, H?” Liam is standing with his arms crossed against his bare chest, just wearing a pair of tight, navy blue pants that do nothing to hide his very impressive bulge. Nothing new to Harry. “Wait, Harry, we’re kinda busy, what are—“

Harry pushes past Liam and rolls his eyes at the girl in his bed, with her arms crossed against her bra-clad chest in annoyance. “Danielle.”

She rolls her eyes, too, a bit exaggerating if you ask Harry, and sighs, “What do you want, Harry?” Her face is flushed and frustrated, in more than one way, and Harry bites his lip to stop the laugh that threatens to burst. It seems like the universe—with its’ zombies and all—are finally getting back around to avenging all the times Liam had dragged Harry out of some seedy club loo before he could get on with someone. Finally.

Liam shuts the door behind him, “So? What’d you need?”

The couple are both looking at Harry and his own brain is going and going and going, everything is jumbled around and flying about like a tornado is rummaging through it and, “Zombies!” It’s hard to control his thoughts, and his speeding heart, as everything that happened earlier comes back to him in a whirlwind—Aiden trying to attack him; lunging towards him, eyes dead and cold, mouth needy for flesh or intestines, or whatever the fuck zombies eat. He sits on the edge of the bed, drops his head in-between his legs and tries to breathe.

“Are you pissed, mate? You on something?” Liam speaks up from somewhere to Harry’s left. The bed dips down and there’s a warm hand on his shoulder. _Warmth_. Aiden was so cold, Harry remembers. He had been so chilly and sluggish minutes before he had disappeared to get the lubricant. Harry had felt something... off about the lad, but shrugged it off.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I got attacked—Aiden, he. He wasn’t human. Oh, god. He tried to like, _bite_ me. He was just gnashing his teeth at me and trying to grab me. I—I don’t. I don’t know what’s going on.”

The bed sheets rustle again, and the bed dips down and then up, and Danielle is furious, standing in front of Harry in just her bra and panties. “This is unbelievable. Look, Harry, _okay_ , I get it. I’m sorry you think I’ve been monopolizing all off Liam’s time, but Jesus, he’s my _boyfriend!_ ”

“What are you talking ab—?“

“Liam told me you were upset that he had to cancel on you last Friday for lads’ night, but it was my bloody recital and that’s important to me, so it’s important to him, too!” Danielle continues, pacing back and forth the small room. “I just, I can’t believe you have to go on and interrupt our alone time—so fucking late, _by the way_ —with some stupid story on bloody _zombies_! Are you that desperate for his attention?”

His brow furrows in anger, and _no_ , he’s not desperate for Liam’s attention, just his damn safety. “I’m not lying! I got attacked! I had to run over here and there were these _things_ chasing me. I literally had to bash this girl's head—do you remember Katie? From music,” he turns his attention to Liam, who’s just watching his best mate and girlfriend like a tennis match.

“Uh, the one with all those band shirts? Was it _My Chemical Romance_?”

“No, it was _Avenged Sevenfold_.”

“Oh! Yeah, sweet girl, her.”

“Uh, yeah, except not so sweet—she attacked me! I smashed her head in with the door downstairs.” Liam sends him in incredulous look and it makes Harry’s heart sink, “Liam. Li, please, I swear on our friendship—I’m not lying, I’m _not_.”

Liam is silent, running his fingers through his slowly growing, brown hair. He nods twice, “Alright, H. Fine, I believe you. But like—I’m confused. Zombies? Really? Like in _Left 4 Dead_?”

“Yeah, but—“

“Are you serious?” Danielle interrupts, her mouth set in an angry line. “Liam, this is such bollocks! There are no such things as zombies. Just like there are no vampires or mermaids, and Dereck is definitely just a fictional character because there are no werewolves either.”

“Yes! Yes there are! Don’t you know that there is little truth in every fiction? And this is not _little_ truth, _Dan_ ielle. There are very hungry zombies all over campus—probably the whole city—and I’m just there to look out for _my best mate_.” Harry stands up with as much dignity as he can behold and calmly walks over to lock the door.

“He’s going to kill us, Liam, I swear. He’s snapped,” Danielle mumbles into Liam’s neck, as he struggles to get dressed.

Harry ignores her and continues, “Aiden got turned into one and he came back to attack me. He just. He looked so dead, so _gone_ , and lifeless. Everything was just replaced by this—this _need_ , this urge, hunger, for me. And it wasn’t like, the sexual kind.”

Liam’s eyes widen and roam over Harry’s body, “Did he bite you?”

“No, but he tried. He snapped at me. I think they want flesh or intestines or something. But I killed him with my toaster.” Harry grins proudly.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow, “Your toaster? If they’re hungry for brains, don’t worry, _Hazza_ , you’re safe.”

“Heeeeey, you—“

“Okay, okay. If, if Harry is right, and there are _undead_ just walking around quad in search for some human flesh, we should really get out of here.” Liam stands up, his face scrunches up in worry and indecision, set lines making home on his forehead. “We should go, it’s not safe.”

Harry nods furiously, “Yes, I think that’d be bes—“

“No,” Danielle says.

“Doesn’t _anyone_ get tired of interrupting me,” Harry mumbles.

“Dani, _no_?”

She shakes her head, “No, Liam. The dumbest thing would be leaving. If Harry is telling the truth, _if_ he’s telling the truth and we’re really getting invaded by zombies, well, that really sucks but I’m not leaving London. I’m not leaving my family, Li. This is my home.”

“Danielle,” Harry speaks up softly. “That’s like suicide. London is one of the most inhabited cities in the world and that makes it one of the most dangerous, too. You haven’t seen those, those creatures out there. They’re thirsty. They want to eat you and once they do, you just become one of them. I’m sorry but, but you can stay if you’d like. But Liam, he’s coming with me and we’re going to try and survive this plague.”

“We can stay here, can’t we, H? We can survive here. We’ll just be careful,” Liam adds.

Harry bites his bottom lip. Liam is just so hopeful, and truthfully, just naive. There is no way they’d survive living on campus. Or anywhere in London, with the city so populated. And even if they hid, what about food and water—necessary resources? They could stock up, but who knows how long the infected will last, and most likely they’d be risking their lives every time they ran out to sweep the nearest Tesco. He explains that, and tears away his eyes from his best mate’s fallen face. “Pack, Liam.”

He watches Liam run around his room like a chicken with its’ head cut off, snatching pieces of clothing off the floors or from hangers in his closet, and stuffs them into his own footy duffel bag, and has to tear his eyes away again when Liam starts slowing down and begins pleading with his stubborn girlfriend.

Harry grabs the Mac off the nightstand, booting it up. He chuckles as he goes to close Liam’s last, open tab— _Dark skin Twink shows Daddy who’s Boss_ , alright Li _—_ and goes to BBC. “Oh, my God.” There are images and photos covering every inch of the website—citizens crying out of help, children latching onto their mums as they try to run away from the undead, the city in flames and dirty with over turned cars and half munched bodies littering the sidewalks.

“Holy fuck,” Danielle whispers from his left shoulder. “You weren’t lying about this. Click there!”

Liam watches them warily from across the room, still stuffing items into his bag.

Harry clicks on a shaky video. “ _So, these things are—they’re zombies. Like in a video game; they’ve come to life! Everything is out of control! There are no remaining authorities—all the police officers have become zombies, too._ ” The guy talking has a shaky hand and he moves the camera around in a 360 view, showing London—or what’s left of it. The once bright city is filled with small fires and vandalized, abandoned cars. There are half-eaten bodies on the pavements. The video was taken a few hours ago, given the smoky, blue sky. “ _No one can get in touch with France or Spain, or across the seas. England is completely alone. If you can, go to Dublin. Go to Ireland! We don’t know how long the rails of communication will be up—not soon. Theses things—oh! Oh,_ shit _!”_

Danielle gasps as the camera is dropped suddenly on the ground, and you can see from the corner of the screen the large man running away from something. Seconds later he falls to the ground and screams out in agony as a zombie, a fresh one, it seems, locks its’ teeth into his leg. _“Help! Please, someone, help! Please, I—”_

“Okay, turn that off! That’s enough.”

Harry nods and snaps the lid close. “We need to get out of here, Li. The whole city is filled with them—I need to go. I need to see my mum and Gemma; I need to make sure they’re okay.”

Liam agrees, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait, what? Are you seriously leaving,” Danielle asks, stopping Liam with a hand on his chest, as he makes his way towards the door.

“Dani, you can’t—you can’t seriously stay here! Are you crazy? Didn’t you see that video?”

“Yes, Liam! I saw that video. What about _my_ family? They’re all here in London, babe, I need to go and—“

Liam groans, running his hand up and down his face in frustration. “Fuck, Dani, they’re probably already dead.”

Danielle stiffens and nods slowly, “Good luck, Li.”

“Oh, c’mon, Danielle. We can make it out of here,” Harry pipes up. He never liked the girl, like ever, but he doesn’t hate her enough to wish for her to become one of those things. She always seemed to meddle herself in between him and Liam, and Harry always shut his mouth when Liam had picked her over him or cancel plans at last minute, but there is no way he was going to let her drag Liam out and get him killed.

Danielle ignores him and wraps her bony arms around Liam’s waist. “Be careful.”

Harry turns his head away from their intimate moment, bites his lip at Liam’s quiet _I love you_ and her response. _If you really loved me, you wouldn’t leave._ He can agree with her—no way in hell he would ever leave behind someone he was in love with. Love conquers all, isn’t that right? He knows Liam was going to break up with her and now it seems he got an easy way out, in the worst possible situation.

“Um,” Liam clears his throat. “Let’s go H.” He grabs his duffle bag, dropping the strap on his shoulder. “Wait!” He stops suddenly in front of the door, causing Harry to bump into his back. “My pistol!”

“Your what?”

“My gun!” Liam smiles at his best mate. “Dad gave it to me before we left for London. You know, just in case of like, a robbery. ‘Course he never thought I’d use it against zombies and the like.” Liam pulls the said gun from underneath his mattress, grabbing the loose bullets beside it. He loads it carefully and with a wicked grin points it Harry’s way.

“Hey! Liam, hi, there.” Harry shoots his hands up, bewildered.  

“Dani, look, maybe—,” Liam looks around the room, brow furrowed. “Where’d she go?”

“She got dressed and left while you were getting your gun out.” Harry frowns, shuffling his feet, avoiding the look on Liam’s face.

“Oh. She just—? Let’s go.”

Harry shoulders his bag again, and approaches the door cautiously. “Okay, now, remember—we always stick together. Like that buddy system, you know? We just gotta go in there,” he karate chops the air with his left hand, “head first. Fearless.”

“Can never stop with the Taylor Swift references, can you?”

“Shut up, I don’t wanna die.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read Stay: I’m working on that! With the holidays I’ve been so busy and I have to go back to uni (I know; excuses, excuses) but I’m def working on it. I want to update this like, at least once every two weeks, so let’s hope for that. Could work on my deadlines.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“The planet is fine. The people are fucked.” – George Carlin_

 

It’s been three weeks, give or take, since Harry beat Aiden—his former sex pal turned flesh eating zombie—with a toaster and ran away to find Liam, his best mate. It’s been three weeks since they left behind Liam’s girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, possibly turned zombie—and ran through the hallways of the Buchannan building like smooth criminals, with a gun and leather jackets and scuffed Converse and untameable quiffs (on Harry’s part) and all. Well, not really _smooth_ , considering Harry tripped over his own clown feet before reaching the main doors while one of Liam’s former, ahem, housemates was after them.

In those three weeks all forms of communication have fallen. There is no signal of any kind with the world—no internet, no phone lines are open, and you can’t even write snail mail. Zombie postmen, imagine that—the dogs would have a hoot. There is no way to get in contact with their families, to tell them they are on their way, or to even check to see they’re still bloody human. Both boys are still praying and hoping that their families are still human.

When zombies began to outnumber humans, well that’s when you had to cut off all emotional ties. Yeah, it hurt Harry to see his favourite professor, Prof. Winston, as a flesh-eating monster trying to eat his best friend, but he didn’t hesitant to press down on the trigger twice. If they learned anything in those three weeks, it’s only to fend for themselves, and if they’re alive for any reason, it’s because of the rules—Harry’s rules.

The day before they decided to bark upon their great adventure of killing zombies and travelling all through England to get home, they raided Tesco for supplies, and well, they almost got killed because of their lack of planning. They got split up, Liam got cornered in the diary section by at least a half dozen zombies, and Harry couldn’t find his preferred toilet paper. It’s was completely shit and Harry then and there, while hitting zombies on the top of their heads with a shiny, red frying pan decided that they need rules. They needed to play it safe.

And they got away, their legs pumping as hard as they can, racing some kind of marathon. _Rule number one: Cardio_.

When Harry had looked around Tesco, by the yoghurt section where Liam was surrounded, it was painfully obvious that the first ones to go where, in fact, the overweight people. _Cardio_ was rule number one because simply, being in shape and being able to run is just the main rule for surviving the zombie takeover.

-

It’s been four weeks since _Patient Number Zero_ took a bite of that delicious, greasy Big Mac that led to all of this. The virus flew quickly around all of the United States and walked its’ way down to Mexico and swam across the Atlantic to Europe. Mad cow disease they said on CNN before everything completely shut down. Mad cow disease which quickly turned into mad person disease, which is now mad zombie disease. They say it’s a bad infection, where your brain swells up until it hits the sides of your cranium and your whole perspective changes. You suddenly get hungry and angry, and you just want—flesh. Just want flesh, basically. The virus shoots down your veins after attacking your brain first, and then it all goes to shit. You’re infected, then you’re dead, and then you’re hungry whilst being dead.

“Wait, stop here,” Liam mumbles against the window panel of their stolen Nissan.

Harry frowns and pulls into the gas, “Seriously, Li, again?” They’re in some town—Farnham, Farmhand—only forty-two minutes outside of London, and this is their second pit stop. “Maybe,” Harry grabs the shotgun from the backseat, “when things, you know, go back to normal, you should see a doctor about this little weewee issue of yours.”

“Oi, fuck off, Harry.” Liam slams the door and makes his way towards the bathrooms in an alert pace.

 _Rule Number 3: Beware of bathrooms_.

That rule came to be after Liam stupidly almost got bitten while taking a shit in some loo in a fast food place on the outskirts of London. Zombies seem to know when you’re at your weakest moment, sitting down with your pants around your ankles, vulnerable, waiting for a bomb to be dropped. The bomb being a zombie, of course.

“I’ll see you out front,” Liam waves him off. “Get me some Pringles, the—“

“Barbeque kind, yeah, yeah,” Harry mumbles.

 

The bell above the door goes off as Harry walks back out a few minutes later, sliding a pack of reds in his back pocket with some struggle—his pants are tight as hell, material clinging to his small bum like second skin. He always liked his jeans like that, a tight fit to show of his miles of leg and—and? It’s been so long since he’s seen another boy, a real _human_ boy, with a beating heart and bright eyes and a still-in-tact penis, other than Liam, and he’s starting to forget why he wears the damn emo jeans in the first place. It surely isn’t for comfort.

It’s just been such a _long_ time. Aiden had left him with a serious case of blue balls (he was always such a tease), and then the dude waited _twenty minutes_ before coming back as a stupid zombie—I mean, who does that?  It’s not like he really has time to wank, with Liam sticking to his side like glue. _And_ it’s not like Harry can ask Li for a little privacy, maybe get a go at it with his right hand and his precious bits in the backseat of their auto, because well, Liam will most definitely think he’s a twat—who jerks off when the end of the world is happening?

Then again, that could be a really good reason as to why Harry needs to do it. _Liam, the world is ending! I will never have sex again—ever! Please, just, leave me be alone for a good half an hour or so in the car. Just by myself. To explain to my dick what’s happening, why he will never be loved again, like he deserves._

It kinda sucks that his best mate is a guy, ‘cause if they’re really the only people left in the world, then they can’t go all Adam and Eve and repopulate. Harry much rather likes Adam and Steve. And even if there was a girl by his side, like some model, like...? Who do straight guys find hot these days? Even if Kate Upton was the only person left on the planet and they needed to repopulate, _ew_ ; Harry’d be cringing all the way through that deed.

It’s not that Liam isn’t fit—he right is. He’s all buff and strong and has chocolate coloured eyes and lifts weights like Harry picks up pencils.  He has these _back muscles,_ right—Harry isn’t blind. But, it’s _Liam_ , his best mate of all his life. He got pineapple Jell-O in Harry’s curls when they were seven; he’s seen him grow up and get his heart broken, and as his best mate, Harry’s been there to fix him up with poorly wrapped joints, Neapolitan ice cream, and marathons of _Say Yes to the Dress_.

And anyway, as far as Liam is concerned, Harry _obviously_ does _not_ know at _all_ that he’s into guys. It was an accident, finding Liam making out with a random bloke in the loo of their favourite pub. Harry had cancelled on their study date to go out with a few people from his culinary arts class, and was very, _very_ surprised to see Liam and his tongue there. (He didn’t actually see Liam’s tongue, as it was in some dude’s throat, but you get the picture.) It was shocking to a point—his best mate never showed in interest in blokes; always accompanied by a leggy, dancer-type girl, and never said anything other than encouraging words when Harry himself had started noticing boys and their smiles and their abs years earlier—Harry never expected it. 

But, Harry, as a very proud gay man, knows there’s one thing that’s even more shit than coming out: having someone out you when you’re not ready. He was only fifteen and hiding so deep in the closet he could almost see Narnia, when that dick Andy told their whole class that his _cousin’s friend’s brother made out with Harry Styles at a house party last Friday and he was_ so _not drunk enough for it to be_ no _homo._ There was actually a lot of _full_ _homo_ action going on in one of the upstairs bathrooms with Andy’s cousin’s friend’s brother, so.

Harry knows Liam isn’t ready, so he won’t push, and that’s that.

He’s halfway through the Pringles when Liam comes running out, hands holding up the front of his saggy, gray joggers, with a napkin stuck to the bottom of his Doc Martins. He’s got a look of panic on his face, and if it weren’t for the growling monster behind him, Harry’d think the lad was constipated. He doesn’t have to be told twice, or _once_ , to run for it. He picks up the extra shotgun from where it rests standing against the gas pump and drops the can of Pringles with a _clank_.

“He just popped out of nowhere! I swear I checked all the stalls, I—,” Liam huffs in frustration, a few inches behind Harry, one hand clinching onto the elastic of his sweats, another with a tight grip on the silver glock. “We have to get in the car.”

Harry chances a look over his shoulder—it’s a real chance, honestly, Harry is so clumsy he almost always needs to watch the ground he walks upon—and squints against the darkness. His heart quickens as he takes in the zombie’s big size and the reflection of his hungry glare from underneath the parking lot lights.

They circle around the back of the store, panting as they come back up to their small sedan again (# _Rule number one: Cardio_ ). Liam takes the shotgun from Harry’s tight grip, trading it for the glock, as the said boy digs into his back pockets in search for the keys, “Fuck, fuck!” His fingers are squished between his bum and the tight material of his pocket.

“Harry, c’mon!” Liam lifts his arms up in perfect stance and pulls the trigger, bullet hitting the zombie man bulls’ eye in the forehead. The shot slows him down some, confuses him, but he’s charging towards the boys again. “Harry!” Liam goes for the neck this time.

“I got them!” Harry grins, pulling out the offensive keychain and his fingers stumble to get the correct key.

Liam shoots again, the third time, and the zombie groans and falls to the ground. “What the fuck, Harry? We just could’ve died!” He shoots for the fourth time just to be safe.

_Rule Number 2: The Double Tap._

The few days after the sudden outbreak of mad cow/person/zombie disease London was hectic, complete chaos. The streets were filled with a clash of zombies and humans—humans running away, zombies eating, humans becoming zombies—all a quick cycle. Most people were doing it right—the running away or shooting part. They got the basics down, but they were stingy with their bullets. No zombie will go down with just one good blow to the head, and that’s when _rule number 2_ was invented. Many people, like the old janitor in Liam’s building, could’ve avoided becoming a human Happy Meal if they’d double tapped.

“Let’s just get out of here,” Harry murmurs, pulling into reverse. “Wolverhampton, here we come.”

-

“You’re such an idiot; you’re honestly the biggest idiot on the planet.”

“That’s probably true,” Harry agrees. “Considering, you know, we’re most likely the _only fucking humans_ on the planet.” He sucks in a deep, pursing his lips around the filter of the fag, dragging his bag behind him, rolling over loose rocks.

“You, you make up all these regulations and rules, and you don’t even follow them, like—?” Liam rubs at his face with his left hand, his habit, and steals the cig from Harry’s lips. “I, I just don’t know. I want to be back home—back in my lumpy full-size uni bed, with Dani. Dani,” he frowns, and takes another pull, letting the smoke and the hurt and the frustration pool down to the bottom of his lungs, before bringing it back up and exhaling.

They’ve been walking for about what feels like a million hours, heading towards Liam’s hometown. They had a car, that really nice, blue sedan probably belonging to a teen girl with the amount of Taylor Swift (much to Harry’s content; they’re just _so_ catchy), Selena Gomez, and Lana Del Rey CDs in the glove box, however they had failed to complete _Rule Number 31: Check the backseat_. Sure enough, right after Liam had shot the gas station zombie and Harry finally pulled the keys that were almost digging a hole into his back pocket only to realize the bloody car wasn’t even locked, they discovered another walking dead in their backseat—covering the nice leather seats with rotting pieces of flesh and nasty zombie germs.

Luckily, they had followed _Rule Number 4: Wear Seat Belts_ , and when Harry crashed the car into the side of a gas pump, the zombie flew out of the front glass panel, and Liam shot it before it could charge towards them.

In conclusion: they almost got bitten, _again_ , and Liam’s mad.

Harry’s kicking at the rocks that have tumbled around from the destroyed highway, and shoulders his bag. “I’m sorry, Li. That—that I need to have all these crazy rules, but I—“

“I know, H,” Liam sends him an assertive smile and punches his shoulder with a fist. “I know why, I get it. Look, we’ll find a car soon—in the next town. And then we’ll get on our way to ‘verhampton and we’ll get my family, and then go looking for Gem and Anne, and. Right?”

Harry nods, biting his lip. _Wrong_. “Right, Li. Everything will be alright. But, I just don’t want you to, you know. Basically, don’t get your hopes up. There’s a chance—?”

“Yeah, Harry. Yeah.” Liam flicks the butt into a pile of broken concrete and sighs. “Yeah, you too, though?”

Harry shrugs, the leather covering his shoulders rises in nonchalance and it’s everything but. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to let Liam think of a place in the world where his mum and dad and Ruth and Nicola aren’t there. It’s not fair, none of this is fair. He doesn’t want to think of his own home, a teeny flat with a rude doorman, hours away, in Manchester, where his sister could be, or the large house in Holmes Chapel where his mum and step-dad, Robin, are.

It’s a bit pointless and very dangerous to go back to their hometowns, they know it—chances of their families in perfect, human condition, sipping tea, watching the X-factor in their house slippers? Zero percent.  If they’re still alive, by some miracle, they wouldn’t be waiting around for them; they’d be long gone and heading towards Dublin.

They had said Ireland was completely free of those things, safe and sound from any zombies. The Irish distributed their own meat, and if that wasn’t enough, the day the virus reached Europe, Ireland had its’ airports closed because of some false terrorist alarm; Ireland itself was isolated. It was all over the news that if you were healthy—read: human—you could catch the ferry from Liverpool to Dublin that crossed twice a day.

Rumour is that zombies can’t swim.

But they don’t know if Ireland is still safe. They can’t get a hold of anyone, there’s no possible way with all rails of communication down. For all they know the small country could be infested with zombies.

“What,” Harry clears his throat. “What would you be doing if we were at uni? Say, it’s around, I don’t know, noon?”

Liam shrugs his hands into the deep pockets of his brown leather jacket, “Does it really matter? We’re here now. We’ll probably never go back, so—?”

“Humour me, Liam Boring Payne.”

“I don’t even know what day it is, Harry Twat-face Styles,” Liam snaps.

“Ouch, gee, that one hurt. Say it’s... Thursday,” Harry grins.

“Well, uh,” Liam’s brow furrows in thought, “I’d wake up around nine-ish and go to the gym, ‘cos no lectures until noon. Oh!” He shoots up, “Dani has practice every Thursday so I’d stop by the dance room and bring her an early lunch...”

“Do you miss her?”

Liam scoffs, “Of course I do. She was—she was a really good friend, for me, I guess.”

“’M sorry I made you leave, I guess. Wasn’t really fair of me to, to ask that of you—to make you leave her behind and—,” Harry stops, twirling around at the sudden grumbling noise approaching them.

“Holy shit, is that—?”

Harry nods furiously, creeping backwards until his behind hits the cold metal of a car door, bag sitting secured on top of his feet. “You don’t reckon zombies have, like, evolved or something, do you? Like Darwin’s theory on evolution; on how birds are really actually dinosaurs and fish turn into lizards—maybe they’ve turned into more advanced zombies that drive enormous Rangers like maniacs.”

And it’s true: the shiny, black Range Rover is being driven frenziedly, and besides that, the two boys haven’t seen any sign of _human_ _life_ other than each other in the weeks following the Chaos... They saw how humans had turn on each other, and while, no, human’s being greedy and disgusting towards each other is nothing new, the part where they attack and eat one another is, and well, there aren’t many left, or any at all, and they don’t know what to expect of one who drives so _bad_.

The said SUV jumps over the curve separating the two highways and with a screech stops feet away from them. Liam is already in position, shot gun held up firmly in his grip, while Harry cowers behind a car.

Harry lets out a sigh of relief as a lad around their age, with loose jeans and a gray, graphic vest underneath an unzipped green pullover jumps out. He’s a short thing, with a shocking mass of perfectly styled blond wisps, fading into a dark ombre where his roots are coming in. He’s kinda cute for a blond, Harry thinks.

“Whoa there, big boy,” the bloke laughs, his voice deep, careless, and thick with an Irish accent, when Liam refuses to lower the shotgun down. He throws his hands up in a mocked scared expression, eyes wide and very, very pale blue. “I come in peace.”

Liam nods and with a quick nudge in the ribs from his best mate, he lowers the weapon.

“So, where you lads headed?” the blond boy speaks up again, eyeing them curiously.

“Uh,” Liam starts, “Going up north. Wolverhampton, then Cheshire.”

The boy raises his brows, “I see. Need a lift?” He points to the vehicle behind him with a calloused thumb, “Got some room. Be nice to have me some company,” he grins, revealing perfect, Colgate-worthy teeth.

“Yes, that’d be fa—,” Harry starts, but Liam interrupts with a quick jerk of his head, “No; we’re alright, thanks mate.”

“Li, we’ve been walking for hours and I’m bloody starving,” Harry pouts and rubs at his stomach.

“We don’t know this guy, H. He could be like, a bloody serial killer or sommat. Don’t give me that look,” Liam whispers harshly, a lame intent at being polite for the sake of the stranger feet away from them, in hearing distance.

Harry quirks an eyebrow in amusement and shoots the blond boy a grin. “Look, Li, I highly doubt he’s a serial killer, c’mon. Why would he want to kill us at the end of the world? And anyway, he’s blond,” he says, like the colour of hair makes everything oh, so obvious and immune from committing homicide. He walks back to pick up his bag, lifts it up against his shoulder, and goes to open the back door of the Range, throwing it on the empty, leather seat. “Ya coming?”

Liam crosses his arm over his chest and frowns, the little set lines coming back to settle on his forehead. “He’s not even naturally blond!”

“That’s true,” the said blond boy pipes up. “I need me roots touched up, but haven’t found a good, _welcoming_ salon.”

Liam continues, “And what does it even matter that he is—unnaturally—blond?”

“Well,” Harry shrugs, “have you heard of a blond serial killer? The only blonds in prison are thieves and sixth form teachers, like Angie. Chris was totally too fit for her, and when he got with her while dating Jal—nevermind. ”

“So he might either steal from us or sexually assault us?” Liam rolls his eyes and ignores Harry’s _Skins_ reference. (Though anything is better than Taylor Swift.)

“Um, I promise I won’t rob ya or sexually assault you. Hm, maybe not the latter—do get a bit handsy with some good, cold pints in me,” the lad laughs again.

“See?” Harry grins, wide and toothy. He knows his best mate is wary about people now; he’d been in the middle of the bread section the day after the outbreak when he got attacked, by humans none the less. They threw him to the ground, a group of four or five teenage boys, and stole the little money in his wallet and his mobile. One of them even snatched the Converse off his feet while the others pinned him down. The sight of his best friend being grabbed and attacked like that made Harry panic, freeze, and wonder which creatures were most disgusting—humans or zombies?

Supermarkets and loos are just not good spots for them, he thinks.

-

“How many rules are there?”

Turns out Niall is indeed Irish, not that there was any question in doubt, and he stole the Ranger from some crazy about-to-turn human who almost bite his head off—literally—and has absolutely no qualms about travelling to different parts of England, wasting precious time, before heading back to his precious country because  _I know my family‘s still there, so why not go sightseeing?_

Harry frowns, “’M not sure. We’re not quite finished with our journey are we, Li? We still have a long way till Dublin; sure we’ll add more along the way, not sure.” He leans forward, resting his chin on the shoulder of the passenger’s leather seat, looking over Liam’s shoulder at the pictures on his iPad. He blows out a sigh, watching as the baby hairs on his best mate’s neck move. That iPad is the only personal item Liam has now, and something pulls at Harry’s heart like a string: Liam has so much more to lose.

He’d never really thought about it, but his mate already lost his girlfriend, and most likely, in unspoken territory, his family, too. All Harry has is Liam and his older sister, Gemma. He knows his mum is gone, he knows it; he can feel it frozen and encrypted in his bones. He doesn’t know about Niall; what he’s lost or who he left behind or what has been stolen from him. As he watches Liam’s index slide through each photograph, a little piece breaks further inside of him; he hesitates on each picture of Danielle, at the park, on the uni quad, in their bed, at a small café on Carol Street. Something tells Harry that Liam definitely regrets leaving with Harry.

“So wait,” Niall speaks up again, eyes glancing up to meet Harry’s through the rear view mirror. “These rules basically saved ya, yeah?”

“I guess so,” Harry agrees, leaning back on the seat. “Definitely saved us from some situations, you know, like the double tap.”

They’ve been on the road for an hour or so, and Liam’s grip on the _oh, shit!_ handle has loosened immensely. Niall’s a great lad, no doubt, but damn he just can’t drive to save his life—or anyone in the damn car. The other blokes didn’t blame him when he refused to give up his car; they had just met overall, and for all Niall knew Harry and Liam could be the homicidal thieves.

-

An hour later they’re in Liam’s hometown and no one dares to speak a word. The normally bubbly Irish bloke has his lips pressed tight, blue eyes wide, and hands tense on the steering wheel, manoeuvring his way through the city from Liam’s earlier directions. He pulls up to a familiar, two story, red brick home with over growing bushes in the garden and smashed front windows.

“Liam, wait!”

Liam slams the door behind him before the SUV stops moving, pulling into the driveway besides a shiny, silver Beamer. Liam freezes in front of his wide open, red garage entrance. He steps in quietly, leaves crunching underneath his boots, and takes in the trashed room. Cardboard boxes are torn into halves, their items strewn across the floor, and the large freezer where his dad would keep the meat for their summer barbeques is empty, with blood drops on the concrete. His sister’s mountain bike is thrown into the boot of a Mini Cooper, the tires sticking halfway out.

“It looks like they were going to make a run for it,” Niall calls out from behind him. He moves past Liam’s frozen body, to the opened passenger door and peeks into the back. “Yep, there’re suitcases in here.”

Harry places a hand on his best mate’s shoulder, “Why don’t we head inside, yeah? Here.” He hands Liam his shot gun and starts up in front of him with the silver glock steady in one hand, slowing turning the doorknob to the entrance of the house. The door creaks loudly and swings back to hit the washing machine behind with a loud bang.

“Harry!”

“What, what? I’m sorry, fuck. Sssh!” He sends a glare to the door, like it personally offended him for slamming involuntarily.  

“Oh, god,” Liam whispers from behind Harry, breath tickling the little, curly hairs that curl around his ear. With every step they take, more glass cracks underneath their boots and the hope that was unwillingly built up in the pit of their stomachs starts mixing with the acid, dissolving. The kitchen connected to the garage door is a mess; unopened cans and boxes of non-perishables scattered chaotically on the counter; some have fallen and cracked open, spilling and rotting on the tiled floor. There is broken glass on the said tiles from a few broken, glass-panel cabinets and glass cups and beakers that were thrown or fell somehow.

The dining room table in the next room is cluttered with papers, pressed, manila envelopes, and a variety of different pastas. From the dining room you can see the grand living room, torn apart, blood splatters on the tattered leather couches, a deep crack on the large hung-up plasma, and Harry knows, and fucking Liam knows, and that makes something inside of Harry ache hard.

“Uh, you know what, Li? Why don’t you look around here, right, and we’ll go upstairs to you know. Just check things out, or. Alright?”

Liam doesn’t respond with anything other than a slight head nod, moving towards the table, placing his shotgun horizontally across it. His hands reach out, shaking, towards the crumpled papers and several manila folders.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have let him alone,” Niall says, staircase steps creaking underneath his weight. “Did ya see him? Poor lad, his whole family—?” He can’t finish his sentence, the reality of the situation, someone’s whole family just gone, shakes him and Harry both.

Harry frowns, “No. I know Liam, and—and I know he needs time. He’s like that; always needs time to think and process things. Best to let him be, for a bit.”

 The doors at the second floor of the house are wide open. The one furthest to the left, is almost falling of its’ hinges, splatters of crimson decorating it, with scratches so deep that the white paint has disappeared. Harry bites his lips and wills his body to go towards the right, where Liam’s parents’ used to sleep.

“Let’s just check to see if anyone—anything is here and let’s move to the next room alright? It feels weird, ‘s all.”

Niall nods and carefully makes his way to the en suite bathroom. 

The room is a disaster, just like the downstairs, and Harry can’t help but be flushed with his own negativity. The bed is perfectly made, if you don’t count the suitcases and piles of clothes piled on top wrinkling the spread. Liam’s mum had made it without a hesitation, without a heavy thought, just like every other day, expecting to crawl back in it at night time alongside her husband. The clothes that scatter around the room were surely ripped out of their hangers in haste; some articles made it as far as the suitcases in the car below and into the suitcases still waiting half-opened on the bed, but most are just sat on the carpet.

Harry’s not exactly sure how it all happened, what went down in the Payne residence. He has a scenario working in his mind as his eyes fleet around the room, taking in the owner-less pieces of clothing and the little framed photographs that once had a home on the dresser, now shattered on the floor. With a smile he bends down, nimble fingers slipping the paper clipping of a young, smiling Liam through the shattered glass.

“No one has fucking bleach.”

He looks up confused, “Bleach?”

Niall nods, dragging his fingers through his darkening locks. “Need to get me roots done, mate. I need bleach.”

Harry rolls his eyes and shoots him a grin, “’M sure we’ll find some later. Let’s just get outta here; we need to check the other rooms.”

 

“So, like, he can totally beat me up, right?”

“Mhm, something like that,” Harry agrees, thumbing at the trophies and photographs sitting on the shelf besides Liam’s childhood bed. He can’t help the smile that covers his face, taking in his best mate’s younger, brighter grin, holding up his awards with pride. “Always was pretty athletic. I think it’s because of him we’re both alive; would’ve never outran those things without like, dying, if he hadn’t forced me into running everyday.”

“He looks so different, so mature now.” Niall grabs a frame from the cherry oak bureau sitting in a corner, below a broken window, glass shatters spread throughout the desktop. “When was this? You both look so young,” Niall asks, holding up the frame.

Harry grins, taking the photograph. “Just last year, man. Back then he would wear khakis and these silly plaid shirts buttoned up to his fucking nose, with his little wavy fringe and then he shaved it all for a cancer foundation. It’s grown now.” It’s true—they both look so young, so naive. Liam, specially. A year since then and his best mate now wears his hair in a small quiff, has crazy facial hair, and picked up a smoking habit. Well, they both do all those things, except Harry and the facial hair (the little blonde dustings that appears above his upper lip and on his chin are _not_ David Beckham-scruff sexy).

“Don’t act like you were any better, H, with your enormous collection of blazers and your fringe, oh God. Once upon a time, you only had one tattoo,” Liam scoffs behind them, taking a quick glance at his room. “I-I think we should get out of here, but there’s something I need to show you guys downstairs.”

It surprises Harry how quickly Liam leaves his childhood bedroom, with only one uncertain look around. He understands it, to a certain point; he wouldn’t want to be in his childhood bedroom when all aspects of your childhood and all the people that made up your memories are gone.

They follow Liam down the stairs and head back into the dining room, where all the folders have been open and are stacked neatly. In the middle of the large, square table are messily stacked piles of notes, separated in fifties, tenners, and twenties.

“Whoa,” Niall exclaims, shuffling closer to the table. “Whose money is this?”

“My parent’s, I guess. They left me a sticky note. Look.” Liam hands Harry the wrinkled, yellow Post-It.

“’Liam’,” Harry reads. “’Take this money we’ve saved up and go. They’re saying to go to Dublin, that it’s safe there. Ruthie and I are on our way there. Hopefully everything goes as plan—‘,” Harry cuts himself off. He doesn’t need to read the rest; all three of them know that Karen and Ruth Payne never made it further than the garage. _We love you so much, be careful love. See you soon. Mum XX_

Liam hastily wipes at the wetness on his cheeks and walks towards a side table near a loveseat in the living room, glass crunching underneath his feet. He picks up a family portrait; one left in tact and completely untouched, and with rage throws it against a wall. The frame slams loudly, the glass shattering immediately with a sharp crack, and it bounces back, hitting the floor silently. Harry watches with torment as Liam’s shaking body squats down and picks up the beaten frame, slipping the photograph of his smiling family out and folds it, gently shoving it in the pocket of his leather jacket.

Liam doesn’t meet their eyes as he makes his way back into the kitchen, grabbing a grocery bag and stuffing the money in with haste and pocketing the Post-It.

Minutes later, the boys make their way back into the garage, Liam leading them, and Niall stops shortly at the door.

Harry bumps into him and squeaks, “Oi, what’d you stop for?”

Niall moves his gaze to the non-perishables on the kitchen countertop and shrugs, “Should we take some of this food? Or would—“

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Not this food, alright?”

-

When Harry climbs into the backseat again, Liam is sitting in the drivers’ seat with a blank face.  “I say, we go and stop at Tesco or whatever before we get to my place, yeah?”

Liam nods grimly, “To Holmes Chapel...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter Harry, Liam, and Niall with be meeting some very cheeky, sneaky, little shits! Wonder who it could be...
> 
> And please, if you have any thoughts/comments, don’t be shy! I love reading your comments; it definitely helps me write faster. Also, if you have any suggestions or ideas for the next chapters, I’d be very interested to hear your input! It’d be quite fun and you can never have enough ideas when it comes to fighting zombies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Basically, I blinked and a two whole months passed. Again, sorry for the delay—life gets hectic between university and family and friends, the usual. Also, I changed my user name from 19and21 to what I have now, and I was so wary about it! They say that the links from places like bookmarks and the like won’t work anymore.  Hopefully that’s not the case and the lovely people who read this story or any of my other works are able to receive updates. (also I started doing the graffiti pictures last chapter, (I have a bad thing for street art) and I think I like it, so. )
> 
> This is not edited, wanted to get it out as soon as possible! I will fix it, of course.

* * *

 

_“The planet is fine. The people are fucked.” – George Carlin_

 

He’s not looking forward to going home. It’s so easy for him to take a lie down on the backseat of the Ranger, legs curling underneath him with his eyes close, pretending that outside the moving metal barriers there is life and other cars filled with _humans_ going to certain places, maybe back to their homes and their families, or maybe they’re off to a great adventure, searching for the great unknown.

He doesn’t like to admit the small surge of guilt he gets whenever they shoot a zombie, because well, it’s fucking ridiculous. They have to defend themselves, otherwise they’ll be _monsters_ , but—but? Those were once people; they had lives and families and homes and jobs; it’s like somebody out there could be shooting his zombie-mum, just like he has shot plenty of mums, too. It’s stupid, Harry thinks. There’s no reason for him to feel like that. He shouldn’t.

They’re getting closer to Manchester and he sort of wants to jump out of the moving auto. There’s a feeling tugging at him inside, a feeling of dread and loss and he knows what it is. Harry’s always been close to his mum; Anne was his best friend and that feeling—well, he doesn’t feel alright.

Liam’s parents are gone, and so are his sisters and his girlfriend—everyone other than Harry that has ever meant anything to him is just gone: they’re flesh eating monsters. Harry doesn’t understand—he doesn’t understand how to deal at his point. His parents and family are still out there, somewhere, maybe zombies, maybe not, and he doesn’t know how to deal with the most probable choice.

Liam had asked him earlier if he wanted to go straight to Holmes Chapel or to Gemma’s flat in Manchester and Harry had just turned around, pressed his nose to the cold leather seat, and let out a soft snore. He doesn’t know.

-

“I’m so fucking hungry! You know what sounds so good right now?” Niall pauses to shut the car door quietly, gently. (Earlier in the day, at another rest stop, the blond boy had slammed the door quite loudly, distracted by the funny tale he was telling Harry, all loud laughs and  bright teeth and exaggerated hand gestures, and had alerted a small hoard of zombies. They made it through without a single scratch or bite their way, but still. The things are not all that lovely to look at.)

Rule number eight was something that Harry had joked about back in week one. The _Get a kickass partner_ rule was already fulfilled by Liam, but Niall is a new addition to the rule; he’s loud and bright, and very blond (which makes Harry rethink the _blonds have more fun_ thing (he was never one to thoroughly defend the amusement his own dark locks could have, he saw himself as a pretty fun lad, indeed)), and he takes their minds away from the every-day danger with his stories about growing up in Ireland.

“I could really go for a burger right now. Like, ya know, one of those homemade, on the grill, not the fast food kind. With real meat and warm, fluffy buns, and crispy lettuce, and melted cheese, and avocado—“

“No,” Harry interrupts, hand gripped tightly on the base of his glock. “You had me until the green, mushy fruit. That stuff can ruin perfectly good sandwiches.” (Harry thinks there should be like, _laws_ passed against avocado on sandwiches. When the amount of the green fruit completely overthrows the ham and cheese ratio, well; it’s nothing but a shame.) He pulls open the door and freezes when the bell above tinkles in response.

 Niall drops his frying pan on the floor gently and takes his guitar from Liam’s grip. He clears his throat, and strums loudly; a comical look of pure concentration covers his face. “ _Honey came in and she caught me red-handed, creeping with the girl next door._ ”

Liam laughs, his eyes becoming brown squinty little things, and sings along loudly. “ _Picture this, we were both butt naked; banging on the bathroom floor. How could I forget that I had given her an extra key_?”

Harry rolls his eyes and bites his lip from singing along; he needs to be alert when the zombies come out of their hiding place in the supermarket. It’s a technique Liam and Harry had developed; instead of being surprised, or end up looking for them just to feel a sense of relieve and let their muscles un-tense, they would just make the monsters come to them.

Zombies are alerted by noise, and Harry’s not surprised when one comes running from behind the doughnut stand. It was a till worker here; still dressed in a blue apron, her arm bent in a way that no normal arm should ever bend, intestines black and practically falling to the ground, foaming white at the mouth like a rabid dog. He takes a deep breath and positions the gun, both hands wrapping firmly. Behind him, Liam and Niall are still singing, their voices wavering as the till worker gets closer.

He pulls the trigger, the shot clean and firm. She goes down with two simple hits to the chest and a slam to the head by Niall’s frying pan, which the boy adds in at the last moment and is completely unnecessary. It makes Harry sick to his stomach; everything about killing the things comes so easy now and he can’t be bothered to cower in his boots like week one or two. He doesn’t understand why the sudden rush of guilt floods his heart, pooling and dropping it to his stomach. He was fine, he didn’t give two shits about them and now—well, now he got to see Liam and his empty house and their hope fade to anguish, and he’s not ready for that; he’s not ready to travel the few miles left and meet his own fate.

The trio stand there silently until Liam lets out a sigh of relieve. “Okay, let’s split up. Harry, you go get the snacks, like the,” Liam pulls a face. “Wait, wait no, you always get the _healthiest_ crisps, and they taste like shit. Scratch that, Niall, I’m sure you—“

“They don’t taste bad,” Harry looks scandalized. Buying all those expensive, _delicious_ , mind you, crisps for their movie marathons, or the special spinach dips he’s made for their parties and—and this is the thanks he gets? Unbelievable, Harry thinks.  “Just because—“

Niall interrupts with a frown. “I don’t think we should split up! Haven’t you seen Scooby Doo?”

“Lad’s got a point, Li. They do always end up in trouble, those meddling kids.”

Liam rolls his eyes and picks up two red shopping baskets by the door. “But they always end up fine, don’t they? Heroes, those meddling kids. Here,” he hands one to each boy. “Get what you want, but make sure it can last for a while. I’ll get a trolley and hang out in the bread and milk and meat sections, alright? And if you find a cooler, good, get one.”  He salutes them and turns to walk towards the trolleys.

“He’s like a weird mixture of brains and brawn,” Niall comments, watching Liam and his shopping trolley, one foot propped against the trolley’s bar, another pushing himself as fast as possible. “He’s Fred and Velma.”

Harry turns towards the blond with interest. “Who am I?”

Niall makes a show of deep thinking, narrowing his eyes in fake concentration, worrying his lip red. “Shaggy,” he says finally.

“Shaggy?” Harry frowns. “Wait, why am I the dumb one?”

Niall just shrugs, grinning wide. He salutes him with one hand, just like Liam had, and turns, walking towards the section that hopefully holds the snacks, swinging his bright red basket in one hand and frying pan in the other; the weapon of choice that he strongly defended, _it was my favourite pan from home, I couldn’t just leave it_.  

_Rule Number 6: The frying pan._

“I’m _not_ Shaggy. If anything, I’m like, a mixture, too, of Daphne and Velma and Fred,” Harry mumbles under his breath. “I’m like, fit and smart and—and Fred-like. Niall’s Shaggy, pfft.”

-

He has his hip propped against the freezer door, eyes raking lustily over the small, cold tubs of ice cream. His basket is filled to the brim of food items that won’t perish too quickly, a couple interesting-looking CDs of artists he’s never heard of before, and three out-dated yet glossy gossip magazines to pass the time. (He really wants to know what Miley Cyrus is like as a zombie. Is she still twerking or has the flesh on her ass rotten, too?) The basket is getting too heavy where it sits on Harry’s forearm, so he drops it gently on the ground without taking his eyes of the chocolate chip mint calling out his name. He finally decides on the chocolate chip mint, for obvious reasons, and when he turns around he nearly has a heart attack.

There’s a little girl there; she’s standing lopsided, arms limp at the sides with pieces of dangling flesh. Her once ivory dress is tattered with splotches of crimson and her big, round eyes are dead, black, empty of anything that was at one point human. She’s a zombie child. She can’t be more than eight, with dirty blonde curls cascading down to her back and only one scuffed Mary Jane on her left, bruised foot.

The ice cream tub is numbing his fingers to the point where it burns, but there’s something different about this monster, Harry notes. The dead girl isn’t foaming at the mouth, not like a fresher zombie would, and she’s also not lunging at him with hunger, growling fiercely. No, she’s just standing there, watching him like a normal girl at the supermarket, curious about his tattoos, wondering if his curly hair is a soft as it looks.

The girl moves to the left, away from Harry, leaving him bewildered. The light catches something shiny, dangling from her chest. She continues to watch him and it’s like something inside her snaps; the way her dark eyes flash and her stance moves, and she’s growling now, like a normal zombie would, leaving Harry baffled, and for the first time in weeks he’s _frighten_ , and of a zombie child, of all things.

He doesn’t have time to react, for footsteps stomp behind him and there’s a loud _swish_ as Niall’s frying pan picks up air and smacks into the little girl’s head. Harry doesn’t look when there’s a crack and a loud, wet _plop_. It’s amazing how little force you have to put into swinging a frying pan at a zombie’s head for it to roll off, black liquid squirting on the dirty tiles and freezer doors.

 _Rule number six: the “Frying Pan”._ Simple as that, honestly.

“Wait,” Niall asks first, priorities obviously still in place. “You’ve got cold ice cream? How’s that possible?” The blond lad looks around at the freezer in amazement. “How’s come some places still have energy and some don’t?” He pays no mind to the zombie child he just beheaded with the same damn _frying pan_ that he used to cook breakfast on, opening up a door to retrieve some chocolate fudge-flavoured. “Look, I’ve got chocolate milk, too,” he nods towards the gallon resting in his basket.

Harry shrugs. “I’ve got no clue, some ju—“

“And what the fuck were you thinking, Haz? I saw you just like, having a fucking staring contest with that zombie-child-person-thing. She was going to _attack_ you!” Niall’s words are stern, but even with his ‘angry’ look consisting of creased eyebrows and glaring, pale blue eyes, and—

Harry finds it very hard to take someone who’s mouth, chin, and even a teeny blop on his nose, are covered with chocolate, seriously. “She was different, somehow, I don’t know! She didn’t attack me at first.” He doesn’t move his eyes towards the beheaded little monster—the guts and rotting flesh still make his stomach flip with unease. It makes him want to laugh a little, remembering when he actually considered studying medicine and getting a doctoring.

“Ah, there you both are,” Liam calls from behind them with an easy smile. He runs, pushing the shopping trolley with both hands, until he’s a few yards from them and props his feet up, rolling to them effortlessly. “I found a couple coolers, so we’re all set. What happened here?”

“Harry claims this zombie child was different because she didn’t lunge at him instantly. And look, ice cream!”

Harry shakes his head, picking up his basket. “Let’s just get out of here, alright?”

“We’re so lucky this store still had electricity. Most of them—,” Niall stops from where he’s bending down to place his chocolate fudge tub into his basket in surprise, big blue eyes wide, when a pair of scuffed black Vans squeak against the tile and come into his view.

The trio snap their heads up and Harry’s breath catches. It’s a lad, human lad, a _fit, human_ lad, and it’s like all his prayers have been answered and he’s grown so tired of Liam’s ugly, worried mug and he feels bad, but blonds don’t do anything for him, even if Niall is a cutie, but this _lad_. This bloke does a lot for him.

His face is flushed pink and he’s panting, pushing his fine hair back from his eyes in frustration. His eyes settle on Harry’s, and it’s like a strong, white current of electricity runs alongside the blood in his veins, travelling all over his body, shouting _wake up! wake up!_ But there’s something about his eyes that throws Harry off—they’re cold and hard, like a thick layer of ice covering a lake during winter. Like there’s something underneath that icy, sharp exterior, something warmer and endless, like summer.

The blue eyes snap away and suddenly the lad’s pushing his way through Harry and Niall, bumping his shoulder against Harry’s arm with force. He hears Liam’s loud sigh and watches in surprise as his best mate goes running after the mysterious boy, leaving his trolley behind.

“Wait, what’s going on?”

Niall snorts and picks up his basket. “You should’ve paid attention, instead of eye fucking him, Harold.”

Harry stays in his spot, looking around the aisle in confusion. Eye fucking? Nonsense, he was just merely distracted.  “But where’d Li go? What’s happening?”

Niall laughs and turns back, walking backwards. Harry might scorn at his gracefulness. “His boyfriend’s been bit. He, uh, he needs help—taking care of him. They’re heading out to the car lot.” Niall turns back around and calls over his shoulder, “Ya coming?”

“Um,” Harry looks around the aisle and at the beheaded zombie, and his stomach churns. “Yeah, I’ll be right out.” 

He listens to Niall’s waning footsteps and goes to pick up his basket. There’s that nasty feeling, his stomach churning, flipping. Blue Eyes’ boyfriend got bit? He shudders at the thought, the mental picture of someone you love changing and turning into a monster in front of your eyes. If Liam or Niall ever got bit—no, Harry wouldn’t be able to handle it.

He takes another step towards the end of the aisle when something crunches under his foot. He squeezes his eyes shut and prays it’s not like, a zombie limb or god, an _eyeball_. Are eyeballs crunchy? He cringes; Harry would like to never find out if eyeballs are crunchy. He can already hear Niall’s crude comment on them being like crisps—and ew, Harry has to look now.  He carefully lifts his foot up and takes a step back and— _oh._

The small, gold necklace surprises him. It glimmers underneath the natural light coming through the small skylines and he remembers the way it flashed with the light while resting on the little girl’s chest. He picks it up with nimble fingers and examines the pyramid pendant hanging of the long linked chain, running his thumb across the deep indents of the small bricks, turning it over to touch the engraved _B_ on the bottom.

He doesn’t hesitate to drop it in his back pocket, pushing the chain down with his thick fingers. He startles when Niall’s voice calls out for him, the sound echoing through the store, and it just reminds him of where he’s supposed to be and who’s waiting for him, and Blue Eyes’ bitten boyfriend, and he sighs with a heavy heart. He’s never been so— _angst-y_ before, and it makes him feel like he’s in a Sherlock Holmes fanfiction. Those are not pleasant. 

It seems that as the days go on and the less people they see, the more it is that Harry can’t handle.

-

Blue Eyes’ boyfriend is _gorgeous._ Like the kind of gorgeous that only belongs in the pages of Vogue or modelling Versace during Fashion Week, and hey, you might be Megan Fox, but when you’re in the same room as the Boyfriend, you might as well just be a mop. It’s like the time Liam got him VIP tickets to Beyoncé concert, with a special meet and greet and everything, and Harry was so nervous, sweating buckets, and afraid to look King Yoncé in the eyes—he didn’t feel _worthy_ in her presence.

The Boyfriend doesn’t meet his gaze when Harry goes to stand in front of him, next to Liam, instead he curls himself into a small ball, bony knees hidden underneath black skinny jeans go to rest against his chest, and he rocks back and forth against the pavement. The bloke is thin and long, the pure definition of _Tall, Dark, and Handsome_ —he doesn’t even look like he’s been bit. But then again, neither Harry nor Liam have seen anyone go through the process of being changed from the initial beginning. (And if you turn that kind of gorgeous after you get bit, well, maybe Harry should rethink a couple things.)

Harry twists his body around to see Niall, one hand gripping his pan and another clutching a glock, sitting sideways in the front passenger seat of the Ranger, alert, and Blue Eyes pacing back and forth in front of him, biting down on his nails. He tears his eyes away from Blue Eyes, his smooth skin, and his lips biting down on his petite fingers, and turns back to the Boyfriend; right, his _boyfriend_ —who in a few minuets time won’t longer be classified as a _boy_.

Liam turns to Harry with a sour look on his face and sighs, thrusting the shotgun in his hands. “You’ve got to do it, H. Niall’s too chicken, and me—you know _me_ , I can’t do it.”

“Right,” Harry nods absentmindedly, hands clutching around the weapon compulsorily. He stands still, mind clicking, eyes going from Liam’s rueful face to the Boyfriend’s ailing, green-toned, perfectly sculpted one, to the gun in his own. “Wait!”

Liam groans and turns. “You have to do it, Harry!”

Harry scoffs and out of his peripheral vision sees Blue Eyes’ head snap up from where he’s packing back and forth.  ‘There’s no way I can do this, Li, please.” He hands back the weapon. “You can’t—I couldn’t possibly do this, he’s—he’s still human. I couldn’t.”

Liam starts, refusing to take the shotgun back into his hands. “But he’s—?”

“Zayn,” Blue Eyes speaks up. His voice is timid and waivers, “His name wa—is Zayn.” He crouches down in front of Zayn and lifts his hand up caress his cheek, curling his free hand around the boy’s neck.

Harry has to look away from the intimate scene. He knows he has no right to act like such a jealous dick, hell, he’s only known—is known even the right word? He doesn’t _know_ Blue Eyes at all. He’d have to get his name first to classify as a non-stranger—for less than five minuets and his boyfriend is dying. If that doesn’t make Harry a complete, utter knob, than what does? But even if Zayn is dying, Harry can’t—Harry can’t _shoot_ him, can’t pull the trigger and _kill_ him. He’s not a murderer (not of humans, anyway).

Maybe Harry should make a simple rule: _Don’t get bit!_

“Uh, lads,” Niall calls from behind them. “We need to get this show on the road.”

“Niall!” Liam scowls.

Niall just shrugs and Harry doesn’t understand why _Niall_ isn’t the most notable option when it comes to killing Zayn. “Look, it takes ‘bout eleven minuets after the biting for a lad to start turning, ya know, the whole bubbles coming outta the mouth and skin decaying and the likes. Recently turned are more... lively.”

That’s the thing about boyfriends and girlfriends during the zombie apocalypse, Harry thinks. They’re bad, not good, no bueno. They prevent you from focusing on the end goal, from getting to the finish line; they hold you back, and when you’re standing in the same position as Blue Eyes is, who is there to blame other than yourself.  And yeah, Harry knows that’s like, the most pessimistic way to view things but it’s the truth.

Harry knows that if Danielle had tag along they wouldn’t have made it so far without someone (read: Danielle) getting bit. And he still feels bad for Liam, the lad did love her certain amounts, and Harry himself knows nothing about love at all, but—those are just the rules. _Rule Number Five: No attachments._

Harry thinks attachments only slow you down, prevent you from doing what you need to do.  And maybe that’s not fair for Liam, or Blue Eyes and Zayn; it’s not like they chose to fall in love and then later try and survive the apocalypse but it is what it is, and it’s the truth.

Niall himself had scoff upon hearing that rule, blue eyes narrowing down as he stuffed another crisp into his mouth. “What about Liam? Isn’t he an attachment?” Niall had asked, nodding towards the brown-haired boy nodding of in the passenger seat.

Harry had only shrugged from where he was sprawled across the whole backseat, legs propped up against the window. “It’s different somehow. I’m not _in_ love with Li—no matter what my year seven diary reads!—so he’s not an attachment to me. We’re not attached.”

“That makes no sense at all.”

“It’s like,” Liam spoke up drowsily, twisting his body around to face both Niall and Harry. “Harry’s my best mate, obviously, and if he died—well, that would suck. But it’s not the same as losing—it’s not the same. I wouldn’t care as much.”

“Thanks, Li,” Harry laughed.

Niall took his hands off the steering wheel to open a new bag of lime-flavoured crisps, car swerving, before Liam snatched it out of his grasp and opened it himself. “That’s still stupid as fuck. You’re both attached to each other. Your rule is stupid, Harry.”

Harry’s snapped from his train of thoughts when Zayn starts to cry. It’s a dramatic sort, with dry sobs and trembling bones, and in an instant Blue Eyes is there to squish him to his chest and whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

“Louis, please,” Zayn cries out.

Oh. Oh— _Louis._ Blue Eyes is Louis.

“I think we need to do it now,” Liam mutters. “Before—we should do it now, yeah?”

Blue— _Louis_ nods and steps away from Zayn’s clutch. “I think I should do it.”

Harry’s taken back, because, wow, seriously? He couldn’t possibly imagine shooting his own boyfriend—fuck, he felt bad assaulting Aiden with a toaster, and they only had slept together (which only reminds him just how damn good the sex was. It'd be totally inappropriate to get a stiffy right now). But a _boyfriend_ , a lover, a friend, a companion. He couldn’t. But what’s worse? Having to kill your partner or watching someone else do it?

“Uh,” Niall calls from behind them, gravel crunching underneath his feet. “Are you sure you want that?”

Louis hesitates, but then nods, eyes locked with Zayn’s. He smiles timidly and turns to take the gun from Harry’s hand, and the latter has to bite back a gasp as Louis’ petite, golden hands brush warm against his own cold ones. There’s that white current again, that current taken directly from the wild oceans filled with sting rays and eels and jelly fish—all stinging his core with a grand, unknown spark.

It’s the buzzing of energy that courses through his body and everything from then on, from the moment Louis’ skin touches his, from the moment the former turns around and presses a slow, languid kiss to Zayn’s lips, a smirk forming between the two of them—from then on everything happens so fast. 

It’s funny, not in the sense of _ha ha_ , but like, _oh shit, really fit Louis with the_ _blue eyes and the feathery hair and the lovely lips and his equally as gorgeous zombie-bitten boyfriend, Zayn, are now pointing guns at us_.

It kind of happens in slow motion, and if Harry didn’t know any better he would swear that Louis’ touched paralyzed him to a standing point. From his peripherals, he sees Niall jut up in shock and run towards Liam, swinging the frying pan treacherously in all directions with blind eyes. Liam only stands with wide, brown eyes, frozen on the spot.

“Mate, can you please stop swinging that thing already? Gettin’ me all dizzy,” Zayn snaps, narrowing his gold-specked eyes at Niall.

Liam turns to face Harry and pulls a face at him. Pretty cool how this whole zombie apocalypse thing has made their friendship stronger—really, not many best mates get attacked by zombies on the daily and get held up at gunpoint by two fit lads. Who knew pretty people were so evil?

The thought makes a giggle pass Harry’s lips and he pulls a face right back at Liam. It’s actually a funny situation, as in _ha ha_. It’s like it suddenly dawns on Harry. Even after the situations they’ve been in that had his arms covered in goose bumps and his body trembling, it’s all slamming into him with the force of a lorry. Even after all those restless nights worrying about his sister and his mum, and the guilt over Liam eating away at him—he’s awoken from his paralyzed state.

There isn’t any reason for him to feel guilty for shooting zombies, none at all; it’s what they _must_ do in order to survive. He shouldn’t stay awake at night fretting over the lives of his family—what’s done is done, what else can he possibly do except look for them? He might find them, and if he does then _great_ , a miracle. But if he doesn’t—if he doesn’t find them, then he has so many wonderful memories and adventures to hold him through the pain.

It’s sort of an epiphany, and he can’t help but wonder if this is how Bella felt after she had her own epiphany in Twilight and truly realized Edward loved her. Either way, the realization is grand and stupid, but that’s okay. He’s _alive_ in the midst of a zombie attack, and that says something. He’s not just gonna stand there while some really fit lad with really pretty blue eyes and his stupid, gorgeous model-type boyfriend point guns at him and his friends, he’s not gonna take that, _no_ ; Harry Styles is not a weak man! He’s not going to let some prick walk all over them and threaten to kill them, hell no.

“I’m not just going to let you walk all over us and threaten to kill us!” Harry shouts, stepping forward to meet Zayn’s steady eyes. The latter raises the small handgun he’d taken out of his waistband and points it directly between Harry’s eyebrows. Oh. Well, he didn’t see that coming. “I’m not just going to stand here whilst you point guns at us!” He’s quite proud of himself, his voice doesn’t waiver one bit.

Zayn laughs and lowers his gun. “Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing right now?”

Zayn’s hotter when he’s quiet, Harry thinks.

“Oi, Zayn,” Louis bumps his hip against Zayn’s. “Come off it already, mate. Look,” he says, meeting Harry’s questioning eyes before looking away. “You’re all really cool lads and like, sorry, but this is something we needed to do—?”

“Oh?” Niall hands his own weapon to Liam. “Is pointing guns at people considered a fun extracurricular activity nowadays?”

“Give it here, brown eyes,” Zayn reaches out for the gun, which Liam hands over reluctantly, with a sheepish look once Niall slaps him on the back of the head.

Louis narrows his eyes at Niall. “Do you think we like doing this? It’s every man for himself out here, mate. You do what you have to in order to survive—you can’t give two fucks about someone other than yourself, because once you do, you’re gone; you’re one of those monsters.”  His eyes meet Harry’s once more.

“Car keys, please.”

“Wait, what? No!” Niall refuses and starts swinging his fry pan once more. He shoots Zayn a glare that is quickly softened by his pink cheeks and cute frown. “There’s no way you’re taking her.”

Zayn raises the weapon again and Niall complies, muttering curses underneath his breath in a fast, angry Irish accent and something that sounds like chant, a spell.

The tall, caramel-skin boy grins at them all, a big, white, toothy smile and bows down in mockery. He hops into the passenger seat of the car and leans over to turn the key in, laughing gleefully at the purr of the engine. ”C’mon Lou, you’ll love this one. Sounds like a baby.” Zayn slams the door shut and Niall winces in respond.

Louis bites down on his lip, and Harry can’t tear his eyes away. Okay, so, he’s a little bit peeved—a bit more than that, he can feel his blood boiling like lava—but, there’s something unjustified that pulls on his nerves. Even as he watches Louis turn and go towards the Range Rover with Harry’s glock in his hand and without a second glance back, Harry can’t help but wonder if it’ll be the last time he sees the bloke. Will they ever cross paths again?

It’s silent as the auto growls and in the blink of an eye, Louis and Zayn are out of the car lot and on the road again; heading towards who knows where, far away from Harry, that’s for sure. They go the opposite direction of Harry’s route to Gemma’s, and he gets a feeling of longing that doesn’t belong to either his family or his previous life—but to Louis, instead.

Niall clears his throat and shuffles awkwardly on his feet. “So, any of you lads have an extra pair of pants I can borrow?”

Liam groans and rubs at his face in aggravation, before shaking his head and jogging back towards the store, Harry following silently in his footsteps.

_Rule Number 14: Always carry a change of underpants._

-

“You were just standing there! You could’ve used that goddamned skillet to swing at them or something.”

Niall looks flabbergasted and kicks at the ground, scuffing his once-white, pristine trainers. “First of all,” he holds his favourite cooking pan under Liam’s nose. “It’s a _frying pan_ , not a skillet. They’re used for two different things. Secondly, they had _guns!_ We had one, too, which I ‘ave to you to use! And what did you do? You gave it to them! Thrice, they had _guns_. Did you want me to go all Captain America and use my pan as a shield from their bullets?”

They had settled on walking the distance towards Gemma’s flat, something that Harry was thankful for. A car would’ve gotten there much faster than he would’ve liked. He moves the weight of his shopping basket to the other arm, and sighs. His mind is still back in the car lot with Louis, and Louis’ eyes, and Louis’ mouth and thighs and fingers and—

“And you, Mr _Oh, I won’t let you walk all over us! I won’t just stand here and let you kill us!_ What the fuck, H?” Liam punches Harry’s arm and laughs. “Where did that even come from?”

“I felt a surge of bravery, that’s all. Obviously the odds are not in our favour,” Harry mumbles. Everything he said sounded a lot better in his head.

“Don’t be a twat, Liam,” Niall cuts in. “Harry had a crush on the little one. You like ‘em bad boys, eh, Harold?” Niall winks at him and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Liam looks surprised and turns back to Harry. “Well, he is your type. All little and cheeky, fabulous arse, too,” he mutters.

Harry grins and shoots a look at Niall. “You think Louis had a great arse?”

“Oh,” Liam snaps his head up and a flush covers his face. “I-I, ‘m not blind, you know. I bet Niall saw it, too!”

Niall cackles, “I really didn’t, mate. Was a bit busy praying for one last pint before death to be checking out any bums.”

“I feel cheated,” Harry says. “By fate. Destiny. Humanity.”

“And why’s that?” Liam asks sweetly, running his free hand through Harry’s messy locks.

“ _Because_ ,” he whines. “Did you not see Louis? Or Zayn?” He watches Liam’s face heat up again with amusement. “Do you know how long it’s been? I practically came right there, in the store, when Louis first made eye contact with me. _Pathetic_. And then, oh, _no_ , he has a boyfriend. Who’s been bit, so of course I feel like a complete dick for thinking of all the things I want to do with him because his stupid—who’s also fit as fuck—boyfriend is suffering and he’s going to lose the love of his life—whatever.

“Then, his boyfriend _hasn’t_ been bit, but it’s all a ploy to steal from us and point our own weaponry in our faces. I mean? What kind of sick game is this? Is it karma? Is it because I threw a toaster at someone or because I made you leave Danielle behind? I—I just. My dick is sad,” Harry ends with a pout.

 “Listen mate,” Niall claps a hand on Harry’s broad shoulder. “If you ever need a hand... I won’t mind, you’re not me type, no offense, but we can make do.”

Harry laughs and shrugs off Niall’s hand. “’M holding you to that offer, Ni.”

“Have you got a fag, Harry?” Liam asks, brows furrowed in search. He pulls out the pockets of his jacket and frowns. “Can’t believe we didn’t get any in the store.”

“No, I’ve got some, I’m sure of it.” Harry squeezes both of his hands in the tight space of his back pockets. His fingers touch something smooth, warm metal in on hand and a small box in of reds in the other. He pulls them both out in confusion, handing over the cigarettes to Liam, his face lighting up acknowledgement--it’s the zombie child’s gold pyramid necklace, the one that crunched under his foot.

“Wha’s that?” Niall asks, eyes trained on the necklace that is being turned in Harry’s hands.

“It’s a little pyramid. It was the zombie’s necklace. I guess when you swung her head off, the necklace came off, too.” He places it in Niall’s outstretched hand. He accepts a cigarette from Liam and lights it up, relief pooling in his system like the smoke that unfurls down his throat.

“ _B_ ,” Niall reads from the bottom of the pendant. “Maybe it’s a sign, you know. It was a really weird how she didn’t attack you right away, Harold. A little pyramid—all this zombie shit was probably caused by the Illuminati, the New World Order, those cunts. Maybe this _B_ was one of their spawn, accidentally turned into a zomb. Get rid of all the humans and start a new super-race.”

“How do you know about that stuff?” Liam asks with raised eyebrows, fingers wrapped around his cig and the other hand pushing the trolley full of food they stole from the store.

Niall just shrugs and hands the necklace back to Harry, who hesitates before clasping it around his neck, the little pendant reaching the wings of his butterfly tattoo. “Dunno, watched a lot of YouTube videos, ‘s all. Did you know Whitney Houston was sacrificed for Nicki Minaj? Real shit, bro.”   

-

It’s a few hours later, a lot of teasing from Niall about Louis and his bum to both lads, a small fight to death (re-death?) between two zombies and a frying pan, and couple of tubs of melted ice cream, that they stand in the middle of a once bustling city, gazing up at a grand redbrick building. Gemma’s flat.

Niall looks around the dead city of Manchester and sighs. “I feel like there should be tumbleweed rolling through here.”

They carefully enter the building, the trio on alert. They’ve been more on edge without their weapons; no matter what Niall claims, it’s just not easy being three and only having one method of defending themselves. Niall and his frying pan can’t be covering Liam and Harry’s arses every time a zombie or two or two dozen come around—it just wouldn’t work.

“There’s no electricity,” Liam notes, looking around the trashed, darkening lobby. “We’re going to have to take the stairs. The twelfth floor, right, H?”

And twelve floors are _good_. Twelve flights of stairs buys time and courage, and if he passes out once they get into his sister’s apartment, he can totally just blame the long walk to get into the city and the many flights of stairs and all the junk food they’ve been eating. Totally, he can do that.

He tries to remember the small epiphany he had back in the car lot, but he suddenly can’t, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to be brave or heroic. He knows all the shit he said about if his family is gone, well, then his family is gone, but—but he doesn’t _want_ his family to be gone; he doesn’t want to go through what Liam’s going through. He wants to walk in there and find his sister and his mum, hug them both so hard until they start complaining about broken bones and achy backs.

He stands in front of door 453 silently. Liam and Niall are at his flanks, waiting for him. He can do it. He can open the door and look inside at his future. If—if Gemma isn’t there, then. Then Harry will deal, he’ll have to. But he can do it—he has Liam and his squinty brown eyes and sweet smile and his strong words. And he also has Niall now, with his bright laugh and manic chortle, who always puts a smile on his face no matter the situation. He can do it.

He turns the door knob slowly, the cold burning at his hand, and takes a deep breath as it unlocks, pushing the door open softly. Inside, it’s clean and spotless—nothing like Liam’s turned upside down house. It’s quiet and cold, too cold, sending shivers down Harry’s spine. His footsteps seem too loud, yelling, as he makes his way through the apartment, into the spotless kitchen, peeking into the bathroom.

Finally, he stands in front of the main bedroom, the door is closed and his heart is pounding. It’s the last room. His hope has all but vanished into thin air, swirling with the cold, and this is it. He turns the door open and it glides against the carpet smoothly and—

“Oh.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always, comments make me very happy! I love hearing what you all have to say. :) AND, I almost always reply so if you write me something, expect a reply.


End file.
